


Coronach

by CourierNinetyTwo



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (and Blue Lions spoilers by context), Black Eagles endgame spoilers, F/F, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 14:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20098354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourierNinetyTwo/pseuds/CourierNinetyTwo
Summary: The root of the word grief is to 'make heavy'. After the war is over, Byleth lifts some of the weight off Edelgard's shoulders.





	Coronach

A week before the wedding, they visit Dimitri's grave together.

Byleth stays a half-step back as Edelgard drops to one knee. The red of her skirt blooms like a flower over the grass, touching the true lilies and gladioli that frame the foundation of the mausoleum. Gold-throated petals cast color against polished white marble, shot through with narrow veins of cerulean. Those Edelgard had planted herself, guided by her future wife's hand like so many times before this.

There are other flowers that do not match, gifts of memory offered by those of the Kingdom who survived, members of the shattered Alliance--all classmates once, all friends. A few polished stones in one corner, an empty scabbard surrendered out of hope to never draw its matched blade again; Byleth notes them all, but her eyes inevitably fall back to Edelgard, whose face is hidden by the white veil of her hair. Away from the Imperial court, she does not wear her crown.

"He was my stepbrother," Edelgard murmurs, head bowed. "My brother. I never told you that, did I?"

There were hints along the way. A knife in Edelgard's study, locked away in a drawer where no one could see. Byleth would not have noticed it at all, had she not been searching for Edelgard, only to find the Emperor asleep against a half-written letter on her desk. The blade lay beside Edelgard's hand, hilt warm from recent contact.

The letter had been an apology to Dimitri. 

That alone was not evidence enough, but the proof was in what Edelgard never said. Truth spilled through the gaps of lost years and half-hidden bloodlines, in the words nobles whispered when they thought their ruler was out of earshot. Usually she was, but Byleth couldn't quite knock the habit of eavesdropping on every nearby conversation, not after months of shepherding students through Garreg Mach. 

"You didn't," Byleth answers, knowing Edelgard will always meet honesty with honesty, even if the truth pains her. "But I put the pieces together."

Edelgard nods, tight and small. It's just enough movement to send a few more wayward strands of white past her shoulders. "I miss him. I miss all of them. It has been so long since I even let myself consider it."

With a silent step forward, Byleth places a hand on the edge of Edelgard's collar. Simply for the weight to be present, never demanding more. Edelgard trembles, muscles as rigid as the stone she faces. 

She weeps as gods weep; that is to say, not at all. Yet the depth of the Emperor's grief is unmistakable, pouring outward like magic through skin. Byleth wonders if Edelgard's Crest aches, if that eternal flame locked in her chest burns like a brand, even now. For herself, it's harder to remember the feeling with each passing day, but in return, she's become accustomed to a heartbeat.

They're soon to celebrate, to be wed, but Edelgard's mind has been away from the details, assured that Dorathea has all the planning in hand. Instead she's been reading every paper Hanneman writes, and sends Hubert to raid each horrifying laboratory that Arundel leaves in his wake. She has tea with Lysithea in the afternoons, always bearing sweets and attempting small talk for fear of what might rise up in the quiet.

Byleth hopes that Edelgard will find the courage to call Lysithea 'sister' one day, as she so clearly wants to. Yet she imagines it will not happen until the second Crest is stripped from both their chests, a task that may be as difficult to research as it is to survive.

It is part of why she and Byleth are marrying now, although Edelgard has never said it aloud.

"El." Byleth's fingers shift to Edelgard's shoulder, squeezing gently. "You're allowed to grieve."

Perhaps the words are obvious; Edelgard is honored as both savior and ruler, spreading reforms throughout Fódlan to break the shackles of nobility until the day that only her own is left. That too will fall away, but with that moment far in the distance, Edelgard's restraint is a reflex. It is the only thing that kept her safe, until their chance meeting.

Silence weaves its way around them, a thousand strings of tension tightening until Edelgard whispers, "I am not sure I know how."

Byleth's heart beats once before Edelgard's voice cracks along a question. "Could you teach me?"

After a blink of surprise, Byleth drops to her knees too. She wraps her arms around the crimson sheath of Edelgard's dress, the color vivid with life, and buries her face into the bone-white shroud of Edelgard's hair.

In the days after Jeralt died, everyone in Garreg Mach expressed their grief and apologies, save for those who were too deep in sorrow for words. So many stories were passed around about a man Byleth was never sure she quite knew, no matter how much she cared for him. To feel in his absence had been difficult enough; to cry, impossible.

"I am not sure I know any more than you do," she admits. "But we can learn together, if you like."

Edelgard's hands fold over her own. For once, they are free of her gauntlets, the subtle crimson scales that taper to noble claws. "I must. To honor him. To honor all my brothers and sisters."

Byleth murmurs her agreement, if only to keep any doubt from arising in the other woman's mind. She traces a fingertip over the ring guarding Edelgard's hand, a reminder of every promise they have ever made to one another.

They stay until the sun no longer glints on the stone of the mausoleum, and the darkness calls for a night of rest. 

After all, there are still things in the shadows to be slain.

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